I let my crossed arms fall back to my sides. “Look. I told Novak to assign you to someone else. So consider us even. Done. Whatever. Okay?”
Layla blinks a few times and something like relief floods her features. “Okay,” she says, and nothing else, and something about the exchange feels final. It makes me know that all the crap between us is ending, right here.
I grab my bag at the same time as Dom reaches for my other hand.
Layla’s eyes land on our clutched palms. But the urge to tell her about my life, about Dom and me and who we are to each other, is completely gone. I toss her a small smile, and a nod, before I turn and head for the hallway.
The day is full of highs and lows. Mr. Frick’s class is awful, as usual, but seeing Willa and Sydney at lunch is lovely. We make plans to go see the Cover Girls, and Willa spills a pack of M&Ms across her tray that we separate by color and eat together. Walking hand in hand with Dom makes it easy to forget that all my problems are still very much my problems. But when he lets go of my hand to head to his next class, it feels like a kind of falling. Every bad feeling comes rushing back, because I have Ms. Novak’s English class next.
I think about skipping. I haven’t told anyone the whole truth about the rumor yet, and Ms. Novak’s involvement feels like a secret I want to keep forever. So I text my mom, because she’s the only other person who knows what really happened—how I really feel. I tell her I want to skip Novak’s class for the rest of the year because I’m still angry. I expect Mom to send half a dozen texts telling me not to skip, but she surprises me.
So don’t.
Don’t what?
Don’t go. Go to the library or something.
You do realize you’re giving me permission to skip a class, right?
Life is short, and you’re sad. If you go, don’t talk to her if you don’t want to or can’t.
Get out of there as soon as class is over.
Or just deal with it. Walk right up to her and tell her you know everything.
Even though your feelings are not her responsibility, you’re allowed to speak your truth.
She’s right, and I’m so touched at her giving me permission to do what I feel is best that my eyes well a little bit right there in the hall. I just send, K. Love you, and then I lurk until I’m almost late. I decide I want to take the “not talking to her” route, and it goes really well until she calls on me to answer a question when I haven’t raised my hand all period. I freeze, and I’m not sure what to do or say, because all I can think about is Ms. Novak leaning over the circulation desk in the library, or the way she cried on my dad’s shoulder when she found out he was leaving Chisholm. The lingering glances they shared that I must have missed and all the other time they were spending together that I didn’t know about. I can’t answer a question about the text we’re reading when I have so many unanswered questions about the tiny ways in which she and Daddy ruined my life. I say, “I don’t know.” Novak frowns a little in my direction, but she lets it slide.
At the end of class, as I collect my stuff to leave, she calls me up to her Hot Seat. I try to get out of it because I’m not ready to be so close to her. If it weren’t so late in the year I’d probably ask to be added to a different English class, but we’re already well into the second semester.
I say, “Can we talk later? I really need to get to history.”
But Novak says, “Don’t worry, Cleo, this will only take a second. I won’t make you late.”
I cross my arms and walk up to the butterfly chair, hoping the barrier of skin and blood and bones will keep my heart safe. I sit down across from her and she smiles at me. I want to hate her. I want to tell her that I hate her. But part of me knows what it’s like to make the wrong choice just because of how you feel in a single moment.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s idealizing Daddy the way I was; if the Cliff Baker in her head is anywhere close to the real one. And if he is, how is she not terrified that his feelings for her will fade just as they did for my mom?
“I got your email. And I want to tell you, I really respect how well you’re handling this…situation. It isn’t appropriate for me to really discuss the details with you, but I just want to let you know I’m going to do the right thing.”
At the word “appropriate,” I roll my eyes. Everything about our situation, as she put it, is inappropriate.
“But the other thing I wanted to say was that I never spoke to you about Layla’s paper. It was remarkable, Cleo. Such a unique perspective—so smart and well drawn. I knew she had it in her, so I wanted to thank you for helping her. Your influence was most certainly felt.”
I nod, and look away from her. “I’m glad. We done?”
She bristles at my coldness, and I feel a little bad, but I don’t know how to do this—how to talk to a woman who was my favorite teacher and who is also the person who is partially responsible for my family breaking in half.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m reassigning her to another tutor, as you requested, but I wanted you to know you’d done a great job. And your monologue idea is an excellent one. But instead of memorizing one from a play, how about you write your own?” Her gray eyes seem darker than usual, and her curly hair is unruly and wild. I see something in her eyes suddenly—some kind of understanding, but also an assertion that she’s still the one in charge here. I kind of hate it, but I know I can’t overtly disrespect her. My parents taught me better than that, and she is still my teacher.
I stand up, and I relax my arms the tiniest bit. “I can do that,” I say. “And I really am glad Layla’s paper turned out okay.”
Ms. Novak shuffles some papers on her desk. She avoids my eyes the same way I avoided hers all period.
“Me too,” she says.
THEY’RE JUST PEOPLE
I ask Dom to meet me in the library after last period. We’re both going to Dolly’s, but I need to check out a book for a history paper. Plus I haven’t seen him all afternoon, and after the day I’ve had, something about that feels like a crime.
“Hey,” he says after I’ve texted him directions to my favorite corner of the stacks. Without saying hi back, I push him against the shelf and kiss him hard and long. I’d forgotten what it was like to want someone, to know that they want me back. And because I know now how quickly feelings can change, I don’t want to waste a second for as long as we last.
“So, can I tell you something that you can’t tell anyone?” I ask him a few minutes later. He’s a little breathless from making out and he’s standing close behind me while I run my fingers lazily over the spines of dozens of books, only half looking for the one I need. He sets his chin on the top of my head and reaches around me to pull a book from the shelf. I feel him nod.